


an offer of home

by smallhorizons



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is emotionally repressed, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, also he's bad at expressing himself, but he's also secretly a huge romantic, what a sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t make it into a big deal,” Dean says. “Okay? Just. Don’t—don’t make a big deal out of it.”</p><p>“What am I not supposed to be making a big deal out of?” Cas asks. They’re in the Impala, the two of them, staking out a nest of vamps, Dean fidgeting in the driver’s seat while Cas slumps against the passenger side door, fighting to keep his eyes open. It’s three in the morning, and he’s running on four cups of coffee and just a few hours of sleep.</p><p>Dean sucks in a deep breath, rubs the back of the neck. “I, uh,” he says, “got you something. Made you something. And it’s not a big deal, so don’t take it that way.”</p><p>Or, in which Dean finally makes it clear to Cas that they belong together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an offer of home

“Don’t make it into a big deal,” Dean says. “Okay? Just. Don’t—don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“What am I not supposed to be making a big deal out of?” Cas asks. They’re in the Impala, the two of them, staking out a nest of vamps, Dean fidgeting in the driver’s seat while Cas slumps against the passenger side door, fighting to keep his eyes open. It’s three in the morning, and he’s running on four cups of coffee and just a few hours of sleep.

Dean sucks in a deep breath, rubs the back of the neck. “I, uh,” he says, “got you something. Made you something. And it’s not a big deal, so don’t take it that way.”

Cas frowns and straightens his spine, uncurling himself from his comfortable sprawl against the door. “You’re giving me a gift? Dean, there’s nothing to celebrate.”

“You don’t—humans don’t need celebrations to give gifts,” Dean says. “Sometimes they just get shit for each other. Because they, uh, care about the person and they want to. Y’know. Show them that they care. Do something nice for them. So this is me, showing you that you’re my friend and I like having you around. It’s not a big deal.”

Castiel can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips or the warmth that blooms in his chest. Dean isn’t looking at him, is staring straight ahead into the darkness with his hands clamped on the steering wheel even though they’re parked. Even in the dim lighting from the nearly-full moon, with his weak human eyes, he can see Dean’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Cas says, “but I think you’re, uh, already making a ‘big deal’ out of it.”

Dean mutters, “Ugh,” and then presses the palm of his left hand against his forehead. His other hand is white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “It’s—I’m not—fuck.” He rubs at his face briskly with both hands, then reaches inside his jacket, studiously not looking at Cas. “Here,” he says after a moment. He draws something out from the interior pocket, clasped tightly in a fist, and holds it out for Cas to take. When Cas puts out his hand, Dean drops the object into his palm. It jingles quietly, the unmistakable sound of keys colliding with each other on a keychain.

Cas draws his hand back towards himself, staring down at the set of keys in his hand. The keychain itself is a braided leather cord, simple but elegantly twisted. A set of smooth beads—glass, Cas thinks—are threaded into the leather. He can’t tell the color in the dark, but when he holds them up close to his face, mere inches from his eyes, he thinks they may be pale blue. The two keys, one large and bronze with a square head, the other small and silver, dangle, clinking together gently, as he holds it up.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says eventually. It is a beautiful gift—the leather is smooth and supple beneath his fingertips, and he is sure the beads will be wonderful to look at in full light. But the keys—he doesn’t understand the keys.

“They’re, um. Sam and I were talking recently, and I realized we never gave you a key to the Bunker,” Dean says. Cas’ neck cracks as he turns to look at Dean, surprise catching at his throat. “And that’s just—I mean. It’s home. Not just mine and Sam’s, it’s _our_ home, it belongs to all of us. So, the big bronze key, that’s for the Bunker. That’s for home. So if you ever need to, um.” Dean shrugs. “Be by yourself for a while—God knows I’m not easy to be around—you can take a few days and then just. Let yourself back in. You don’t have to wait for us to open the door for you.”

“Dean,” Cas breathes. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“And the other one, that’s—well, that’s hers.” Dean pats the steering wheel. “The Impala’s. So if you ever need—or want—to drive her, you got her keys.”

“You’d let me drive the Impala,” Cas says, almost numb.

“I mean, don’t just take her out without telling me,” Dean says, almost tripping over his words. “If Sam pulled that shit, I’d put fuckin’ Nair in his shampoo again. But if we’re driving somewhere, or if you just, I dunno, wanna take a drive just because, you’re welcome to her. Just,” he adds, laughing a little nervously, “bring her back in one piece.”

Cas stares down at the keys in his palm, feels the texture of them, the weight of their meaning. He doesn’t think he can put words to the emotion choking his heart, crawling up his throat, prickling behind his eyes. “Dean,” he tries. “Dean, I …”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean says again, shrugging, but he’s still not looking at Cas, is still holding himself with tension in every line of his body.

“Stop saying that,” Cas says. “This … Dean. _Thank_ you. This—I can’t— _Dean_.”

“They’re just a couple of keys,” Dean says, a little weakly. “It only took a few hours to put together.”

Cas runs his fingers over the braided keychain, presses his fingertips lightly against the teeth of the keys. “You made the keychain,” he says. “You braided this yourself?”

“It’d be a kind of shitty gift if I just bought some fifty-cent chain at a gas station,” Dean says. “And, um. I know it’s not—the keys—I know they’re not much. You’ve already been traveling with me—with us—for a while. I just wanted to make sure you knew that this is it. This is—you’re family. Home isn’t home to me unless you’re in it.”

Silence stretches between them, a fragile thread holding them together.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Dean starts to say again, but Cas catches his words with his mouth, presses his gratitude, his adoration, into his hands holding Dean’s cheeks, his lips on Dean’s lips. The keychain is clutched tightly in his palm, so tightly he can feel the teeth of the keys digging into his skin, but he doesn’t care—only cares that Dean has made a broken sound, almost like a whimper, into his mouth, and has wrapped his arms around his waist, is pulling Cas closer, onto his lap.

When Cas pulls away, he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against Dean’s, nudges his nose with his own. They’re both panting, Cas’ human heart hammering at his rib cage. Dean’s keys, his offer of home, are pressed so tightly into his hand he feels as though they will become part of him.

“I thought I said not to make it a big deal,” Dean says, voice rough and low, and Castiel laughs until he feels his heart spill over with the joy of it, and then he kisses Dean, kisses him again and again, saying with each kiss, _Home is with you_.


End file.
